


Habeas Corpus

by asuralucier



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Adjudication Sucks, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Badass Ladies, F/F, Pre-Canon, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27545806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: Gianna D’Antonio adjusts to her new role as an Adjudicator for the High Table and learns to do things on her own terms.
Relationships: Gianna D'Antonio/Ms. Perkins
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Habeas Corpus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freudiancascade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freudiancascade/gifts).



> Plays Hobbes with the timeline and uh, let’s face it everything, but this grabbed hold of me and I couldn’t resist. I hope you enjoy and have a happy Yuletide!
> 
> Many thanks to my betas ictus and StripySock!

Nicolo D’Antonio’s funeral was held at the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore due to an old, time-honored tradition made recently more attractive via a tax loophole. The man had died young at sixty-two, but no one thought to inquire into the nature of his death. 

It was a beautiful, subdued service officiated by the Pope, who was escorted away the moment the formalities ended. 

After that, it got predictably rowdy. Planned chaos. Mostly, Gianna D’Antonio tried to stay out of it; although she was not a regular churchgoer, she knew the basilica like the back of her hand for occasions such as these. When the festivities looked to have calmed down a little, she reemerged, stepped over a comatose figure stretched out across the nave and went to find her brother. No doubt Santino was in the thick of it. He wasn’t one to be left out of any excitement.

Gianna managed to find him in the Provost’s office, nursing a split lip and a glass of grappa. There was a telltale red stain at the edge of Santino’s collar and he looked pleased with himself. 

Santino said, gesturing, “You know, I think there’s someone looking for you.” 

Gianna considered this as she went to the Provost’s desk and helped herself to some grappa, tipping the bottle until her glass was full to the brim. “Does this someone want money?” Nicolo D’Antonio had made a series of poor investments towards the end of his life, and upon her father’s death, Gianna had been swiftly made aware of the resulting debtors. 

Santino looked at her levelly. Then he drank more grappa and swallowed noisily, as if to make a point. His bloody lip left a red print on the rim of the glass. “No, I think he’s from the High Table.” 

Gianna’s heart did a run around her ribcage before dropping to her stomach. “And you’re not worried?” 

“Why should I be? It’s not as if he’s asking for me,” Santino said, sounding more than a bit smug. “Come on, drink up, you don’t want to keep him waiting, do you?”

“ _Cazzo_ ,” Gianna swore darkly into her drink.

\+ + + 

In her head, Gianna had thought about a meeting with the High Table more than once and in great detail each time. Even though Nicolo D’Antonio had run afoul of the High Table in his later years, the family had always had an intrinsic connection to the Table, and one couldn’t get rid of the other so easily.

Except now her father was dead. 

Gianna thought about this too, as she approached the lone figure frowning deeply out into the street from his position in the vestibule. The man was smoking a cigarette. Just from studying the man's head, Gianna could see his will to live vanishing, as though it were slowly seeping from the back of his skull. Somehow, that made her feel better. 

Gianna cut to the chase. Funerals were not her favorite thing, and she wanted more grappa. “Santino said you were looking for me.” 

The man glanced at her, mostly disinterested. He was hunched over, as if trying to disappear into the billowing black hoodie. “Did you mean to take me by surprise, _Signorina D’Antonio_?” He clearly did not speak Italian during his day-to-day life, though Gianna appreciated the effort. However, Gianna appreciated it rather less, that when she looked down towards the floor, she spied the man’s bare toes poking out of a pair of ragtag sandals. The kindest thing she could say about that, was that perhaps this man was not a funeral person either. 

“If I wanted to do that, I’d threaten you with my gun. Pointed straight at the back of your head.” Gianna was in fact, armed. She’d gone down to the gun range to refresh herself on how to use a gun, just this morning. Since the gun range was buried beneath the mansion in the catacombs, she was left alone. 

(Not that Gianna had needed the reminder, but it’d been nice to have a few minutes to herself, punch the adrenaline out of her system prior to the real excitement of her father’s funeral.) 

The man continued, as if she hadn’t spoken, “Your brother did inform you that I was sent by the High Table?” 

“Dressed like that?” Gianna couldn’t help herself. In any other context, it would have been certain suicide, but she was getting the distinct feeling that this man didn’t have the same relationship with decorum as the rest of his colleagues. 

“The High Table has given me a bit of leeway,” the man admitted, “seeing as how my Descension is scheduled next week. They’re giving me enough time to install my replacement—that is, you. Consider this your inheritance.”

“...I see.” Gianna stopped short of apologizing. She watched as the man finished the stub of his cigarette, neatly down to the quick. After he was done, he strode forward and flicked it outside onto the steps. Once she had his attention again, Gianna said, “But you’ll forgive me if I don’t really understand. What does your Descension have to do with me? My father’s place on the Table has no ties to you. I don’t even know your name.” 

“My name is Simon,” said the man, in the sort of voice that suggested he’d rather be anyone else. “I am an Adjudicator. And starting next week, so will you be. Did you really think we were going to let your family near the top of the chain again after the mess Nicolo D’Antonio left us with?”

Gianna had to admit, she hadn’t thought about it in quite those terms. Still, she felt compelled to add, a touch indignantly, “I’m not my father.”

“Don’t we all like to think that,” said Simon, but his irony was tempered with just the mildest strain of sympathy, though he didn’t elaborate. Then he reached out a hand, as if to touch her, but rejected the idea last minute. He pulled back and cleared his throat, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I shall expect you in New York in three days.” The sentence hung there, a little like an incomplete thought.

“And?” 

“And—” Simon’s face flushed as he spoke, which seemed even from their brief acquaintance, unlike him. “I am sorry for your loss.” 

Gianna thought, _which one?_ before laughing at the absurdity of it. “I suppose I am too.”

\+ + + 

Santino stood just outside of his sister’s bedroom, the distance calculated to avoid anything Gianna might feel like flinging at his head. At the moment, Gianna was wavering between a vintage silver paperweight (left to her by her late mother) and a bullet (fired neatly, of course, from the gun that never left her arm’s reach).

“You’re going to _love_ New York,” Santino said, smugness oozing everywhere. “They’ve got great pasta. You can practically swim in the stuff in Central Park.” 

Gianna scoffed, “You do know that makes no sense.” 

Santino gave a shrug. It wasn’t as if he gave a shit. His life would continue tomorrow, as if nothing had changed. 

As for Gianna, she was faced with the daunting task of condensing thirty-odd years of life into a suitcase, and she wasn’t enjoying it. Though there were all manners of help, from the butler to the cook wanting to lend the young _Signorina_ a hand, Gianna had refused. It’d felt important to her that she do this on her own. The words, _la famiglia_ were so often on the tip of everyone’s tongue that they forgot what _la famiglia_ was really about: it needed a firm hand, an iron fist to make sure that everyone stood together, stayed united. 

That fact notwithstanding, Gianna still rather wanted to shoot her brother in the head. She sighed, tossing the paperweight aside for the moment and closed her suitcase. She left it on the bed and stood. There were still many things to be done before Gianna had to depart for New York. 

Not least of which—

Gianna stood in front of her bedroom door, with only Santino blocking her way. When she started to take another step forward, he flinched. Gianna just about managed to keep her smirk to herself. Good thing her brother still had his survival instincts near him when he needed them. 

She touched his shoulder and he flinched again. “Try not to burn down the house while I’m away.”

\+ + +

There were a lot of things Gianna hated. About New York, about her new job, about the absolutely appalling standard of pasta that was currently touted in the Big Apple as _authentic_. She always told herself she oughtn’t hate things, but now she knew such a positive attitude was indicative of a certain privilege. It was important to the High Table that Gianna D’Antonio learned humility.

The young lady who opened the door to Apartment 1B looked surprised to see Gianna, but only for a moment. Gianna must have caught her in the middle of either a very good day or indeed, a very bad one, judging by what she was wearing (a robe, a low-cut t-shirt) and a bottle of Chianti she was holding by her hip (half empty). “ _Simon_ , what the fuck happened to you? You like, grew boobs.” She was wearing dark red lipstick, unsmudged by her vice, and for a moment, Gianna wondered if she and Simon—

No, of course not. 

If she had been anyone else, Gianna might have taken a moment to feel self-conscious about her breasts. As it were, she cleared her throat and stuck to the script. “Simon was Descended from the High Table last week. My name is Gianna D’Antonio, I have Ascended and taken his place. From now on, you will be dealing with me.” 

The young lady didn’t seem impressed or amused. She drank more wine straight from the bottle and made no secret of the fact that she’d always taken care of herself and didn’t care much for the leash she was on. Even though her appearance was disheveled at present, Perkins clearly thought enough of herself not to give a fuck. To Gianna, this was not entirely a bad thing. Perkins wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and said, “Where do I know that name? D’Antonio.” 

“You probably have heard of my father,” Gianna said shortly, careful to omit any useful detail. “May I come in, Miss Perkins?” While a part of her might have taken offense at the way Perkins spoke to her, there was that other part of Gianna, the part of her that decried the High Table’s own boorish, unrelenting bureaucracy, which found the woman’s rudeness refreshing.

Perkins shrugged amiably enough, but still didn’t step aside. Looking her up and down, Gianna came to the conclusion that while Perkins wasn’t armed with a piece, she was still holding a bottom-heavy glass bottle. 

Finally, Perkins stepped back into her hallway and pointed her chin “ _Mi casa su casa_. That even Italian? It’s kind of a mess.” 

Gianna shrugged back, the gesture a little heavier on her shoulders than she would have liked but thankfully, Perkins didn’t seem to have noticed. But Gianna added, just in case, “I don’t mind a bit of mess. And yes, I suppose that passes for Italian in this country.”

Perkins snorted. “Like I believe that.” 

“About the Italian?” 

“No. About the mess. If you’re part of the High Table, then that practically goes without saying, yeah?” Perkins gave her another long look as she moved to lead Gianna down her hallway, most noticeably, without turning her back, or indeed, loosening her grip on her half-drunk bottle. Gianna took a moment to close the door behind her and took note of the knife in a makeshift sheath just taped behind the door. Just for a moment, Gianna paused to admire the younger woman’s ingenuity. Something she doubted Simon ever did. She too, hated her appointment to the High Table, but probably for a different reason. 

“I’ll let you know,” said Gianna. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t decided yet.” 

“Anyway.” Perkins gestured with the bottle in hand. “Make yourself at home. You can sit…” She brushed past Gianna and bent to clear off a pile of clutter from one end of a tired looking couch. “Here. Something to drink?” 

There was a stain on the cushion, and Gianna did her best not to sit on it. She fixed a neatly suspicious look at Perkins’s wine bottle as the younger woman took a swig from it. “Only if it’s not that. Are you even allowed to drink?” 

“In your country,” said Perkins. “Or hell, on your continent. Do you really give a shit about that?” 

“What I give a shit about, Miss Perkins, is your measure of personal value, but we will get to that presently.” Gianna finally settled in enough now to study her surroundings. Perkins appeared to have painstakingly exaggerated the state of her apartment in reverse. Before she could regret asking, Gianna said, “Are you going to pour me a drink or not?” 

Perkins shrugged. “All right, whatever. Don’t touch anything.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Perkins still clutched the wine bottle as she left the room, though this time she turned her back. She was noisy enough in the kitchen that Gianna hardly had to worry, the clink of a previously unwashed glass being run under a tap for—five, ten, twenty, thirty seconds. 

(She almost let out a sigh of relief.) 

Perkins soon returned with her bottle in one hand (by the looks of it, with a further two inches gone) and a short-stemmed glass filled a quarter of the way with something clear. 

Gianna accepted her drink and gave it a sniff. “Vodka?” 

“Cucumber vodka,” said Perkins. “Some asshole gave it to me as a joke. It’s either I give it to you, or it goes down the drain. Or do you not drink vodka this early in the day?”

Gianna didn’t respond well to baiting, but there was no denying that she was thirsty. There was something about New York that made her that way, although she seldom thought about it. After a sip, she made a face. “This is disgusting.” 

“Why do you think I haven’t opened it? But if you didn’t want this—” Perkins took another drink from her bottle. “—Then cucumber fucking vodka’s all I got.” She was a bit unsteady on her feet, but Gianna thought she knew why Perkins was so determined to stay upright. For one thing, it didn’t look like there was anywhere else for her to sit, and for another, Perkins probably preferred it when it was Gianna who was looking up at her. 

Gianna didn’t answer. She did, however, put down her glass on the floor. 

Finally, Perkins said, “What’s this about my self worth, then?” 

“I hate self-worth,” Gianna told her. “It’s so excruciatingly American. Not everyone has worth, you know. And that wasn’t what I said.” She stood up, and for the most part, Gianna was able to look Perkins in the eye, a fact that drove the young lady to drink and so it should. Gianna prided herself on being able to make people nervous.

When it looked like Gianna had Perkins’s full attention again, she continued, “What I said was that we’d speak about your measure of _personal value_. To the Company, to the High Table. We couldn’t give less of a shit about your sense of self worth. And it looks like we’re not the only one.”

“Is that really what you think?” Perkins looked at her, pointedly askance, but there was too, an air of curiosity lingering nearby.

“It’s what I know. Unless you prove to me otherwise.”

Perkins grinned, flashing perfect white teeth. It’s a millisecond of Gianna being taken aback, but it’s enough—Perkins moves lightning quick—only hampered by a lack of true precision, and swings the bottle in a wide arc, aiming more or less for Gianna’s head (she thought); it was possibly an instinctive move of self defense rather than anything well thought out. If Perkins were any less drunk, Gianna might have been nursing a smashed skull right about now. But Gianna was faster (or just more sober) and she had Perkins’s wrist in a vise grip, with the bottle just an inch away from her head. 

“Drop it.” 

Perkins did, after a few seconds. The bottle dropped onto her dirty carpet with a dull thud. 

“You’ve just threatened a member of the High Table, Miss Perkins. I’m well within my rights to take punitive measures against you.” Perkins flinched at this, but Gianna was determined that the woman not shirk away from her; with her free hand, Gianna kept a firm hold of Perkins under her chin. “On my say so, Enforcers will storm your address in a matter of minutes. And then where would you be?” 

“Dead in a ditch, I guess.” Perkins grinned, although the edges of her mouth were shaky. This time, Gianna was not so surprised by her white teeth.

“Very good, I guess you’re not stupid after all.” Gianna nodded, pleased. “Between my recent Ascension and your—”

“Displaced sense of _personal value_?” Perkins suggested thinly. 

“Very good again,” Gianna said, and now she let go of Perkins. “I’m willing to call this a misunderstanding on one condition.”

Perkins cleared her throat. She seemed ready to slouch forward again, assuming a fuck-you stance as per usual. Then she took another look at Gianna and straightened up again. For the first time, she seemed conscious of her low-cut t-shirt and wrapped her robe tighter around herself. “Yeah, and what’s that?”

But if anything, that drew Gianna’s eye. She let herself look, but only for a second before turning on her heel and calling over her shoulder, “Provided that on my next visit, you’ll pour that fucking disgusting cucumber vodka down the drain.”

\+ + +

Winston found her at the bar. The last time Gianna had met the Manager of the New York Continental in Rome, she’d been scarcely a teenager, but nothing about Winston had changed, save for a few more gray hairs.

Not that she was about to tell him that. 

“I hear you’ve survived your first month, Miss D’Antonio.” Winston took the stool next to her and waved for the bartender to pour him a drink. 

“You sound surprised that I did,” Gianna said, keeping her voice and posture casual. 

“Adjudication is where talent goes to die, so they say.” 

“I’ve not heard that.” But Gianna thought of Simon and conceded there was perhaps some truth in the adage. 

“Of course you wouldn’t have,” said Winston, but he might as well have said _fuck you_ instead. “If you had, I’d like to think you’d have the wherewithal to think through your father’s inheritance.” 

“I know he left me with a pile of shit,” Gianna agreed, if unhappily. It was such a truth that she couldn’t be bothered to hide it. “Well, me and my brother, but you know Santino. What would you have me do? Refuse the High Table? That’s suicide.” 

For a long moment, Winston said nothing. And then he nodded at her empty glass. “Another? It’s on the house.” 

“My father might have left me knee deep in debt, Mr. Manager, but I think I can manage my own drinks.” Gianna suddenly felt the urge to flee, but then Winston was already motioning to the bartender to refill her glass. 

“I think too much of you and your family to stoop to that, Gianna.” Winston’s calling her by her Christian name gave her pause, as it was probably meant to. He’d walked too long on this earth to leave anything to chance. “Please.” He gestured at the empty stool she’d just vacated. “Think of this as a gesture.” 

“Towards?” 

“Friendship, if you’d like,” Winston said. “Or perhaps, if it’s easier to swallow, you can also think of this drink as my apology to you. I didn’t make it to Nicolo’s funeral, as I was preoccupied here, but I had always meant to.” 

“That’s not anything to apologize for, Winston.” Despite Gianna’s better judgment, she sat back down. “Father did die rather suddenly. Did you know him well? I know he loved New York.” 

"Indeed he did. And yet I have to wonder, just how well did you know your father? You didn't seem to know about his debts. You don’t seem to have known about his debts.” 

“I don’t think it would have mattered if I did. Shit is shit.” Gianna shrugged. “Will you please answer my question?” Then she added, “As a gesture.” 

Winston smiled. “I knew him well, but I would have liked to know him better. Because then he might have taken my advice to heart.” 

“What advice did you give him?” 

Out of the corner of her eye, Gianna saw the east doors of the bar open. John Wick entered and she caught Winston looking too, with an eye of appreciation rather than neat suspicion. John looked like he’d come straight from a job, and there were shiny spots on his suit, from blood. Not to mention he reeked of it. Gianna hadn’t yet paid a visit to John Wick’s address, but she suspected it was only a matter of time.

“I told him that one had to be very clever about breaking the rules,” Winston said, and held up a hand when he noticed her look. “Mind you, I didn’t mean this as an insult to his intelligence.”

“I couldn’t have told the difference.” 

Winston waved her away. “If you wish to be so unkind about it, Gianna, I can’t stop you.” By now, John had reached the bar and mumbled something about wanting a bourbon, neat. Winston appeared briefly grateful for the distraction, but then his expression quickly soured into annoyance again.

To John he said, “Alcohol thins your blood, Jonathan. Perhaps save the bourbon until you’ve seen Dr. Park.” 

“I’m not bleeding,” John said. 

“But you will be.” Winston sounded resigned, as if he well knew what was coming. “Knowing you, you’ve probably taped yourself back together. Off you go, the bourbon will still be here when you return.” 

“Fine,” John sighed. He slid off his stool, favoring his left leg over his right. He gave Gianna a cursory nod hello before turning his attention back to Winston. “...Will I see you later?” 

Managers were notoriously private people. They hated exposure and preferred to remain in the ultimate comforts of their hotels. In their inner sanctum, there was little one could do that wouldn’t be considered a breach of Company rules. Yet John’s question had done exactly that, unsettled the man who was supposedly untouchable in his ivory tower. Gianna could see it plainly, a clear, honest crack in Winston’s otherwise docile expression—a careful falsehood. 

“Go see the Doctor, Jonathan. Now.” 

John went without another word, but not before downing the bourbon that had been surreptitiously set down in front of him. The bartender was nowhere in sight. 

“The only advice Father ever gave me, was that I needed to spend money to make money,” Gianna said, “Given the state of things, I think I believe him now.” Then she said, careful to keep most of her attention on her drink, “Do you always let him speak to you like that?” Despite herself, Gianna was curious. It was her own policy never to mix business with pleasure, but it would appear that Winston (and by extension, John) felt differently. 

“As long as Jonathan understands and respects our respective positions within this fine establishment, then he is free to speak to me however he wants,” Winston said, shrugging, “I could say the same for you, Gianna. Aren’t we speaking quite frankly?” 

Another thing Gianna tried to do in her day to day was picking her battles. Neither her name nor her station meant much nowadays, and inevitably, there was a lot of picking and choosing. However Winston chose to conduct personal affairs on premises was not her concern, up to a point. 

“Is that the same advice you gave my father?”

“After a fashion.” Winston nodded. “Even if you were the world’s most conscientious person, Gianna, you’ll break a rule one day. But provided you break the right rules when the right people are watching? You’ll be on the top of the world.”

\+ + +

“What’s this?” Perkins stared suspiciously at the gun in Gianna’s hand. However, she did look sober from what little Gianna could tell from the sliver of the other woman’s face. There was less of a tired swallow look about her and she looked more awake. In Gianna’s opinion, this was a good thing since Perkins was intent on staying in a profession where people lived to do each other bodily harm.

“It’s a peace offering,” said Gianna. “To make certain our previous misunderstanding stays that way. More than that, I’d like to put you at ease.” 

Perkins glared, but she did open the door. She pushed some hair out of her eyes and she was alert enough this time that Gianna could finally tell her eyes were dark and dangerous. “Is that a joke?”

“I’m not good at jokes.” Gianna told the truth as she stepped inside the apartment. “But I did realize from our last encounter that you listened better when you perceive yourself to be under threat.”

“Well, I learned from our last encounter that you should go _fuck_ yourself.” 

Gianna cocked the gun in her hand and after three long strides, there was scarcely an inch of space between Perkins and herself, and the muzzle of the gun was snug against Perkins’s breastbone. But the woman’s breathing stayed the same, as did her heartbeat, and Gianna took this as a good sign. 

Gianna said, “Are you done?”

Perkins let out a breath noisily through her nose. “Yeah.” 

“Good, let’s go sit down.”

Gianna was gratified to see that Perkins had taken her earlier advice as heavily implied. While the place wasn’t neat by any standards, it now looked as if someone lived here, rather than a select portion of a dire wasteland. But she took care not to look particularly pleased as she took a seat on the sofa. 

Perkins stood over her, uncertain. Then she said, “Want a drink?” 

“As long as it isn’t cucumber vodka,” Gianna said. 

“And you say you’re not a joker. I’ll be a second.” 

Presently, Perkins returned with a glass of wine in each hand. She handed one over, and said, by the way of apology, “Probably not what you’re used to.” 

“But what I’m expecting.” Gianna nodded her thank you. “And I didn’t come here for your sterling hospitality.” 

“If you did.” Perkins looked down at Gianna and her gun levelly. “Would it help get me out of this fucking mess? It’s been this way for three months. Simon never told me a goddamn thing.” 

Gianna tried some of the wine; it was exactly what she’d expected, so she didn’t make a face. “Answer me a question first, are you always this angry? The High Table let you live. You could have been declared _Excommunicado_ over what you did. That’s a fact that not anyone can change. What matters now is if you’ve learned. And stay out of Colombia. Who knows what the dregs of von der Heide’s loyalty might still send after you.” 

Perkins snorted rudely. “Provided they ever let me out.” A pause. “You’d be pissed off too, if you were me.” 

“Would I?” 

Perkins lifted her glass to her mouth, and at the last second, seemed to decide against it, which made Gianna uneasy. “Your old man died, didn’t he? It’s why you’re here in New York and not wherever. Tell me that doesn’t piss you off.” 

Gianna said nothing. 

Perkins drank from her glass and waited. Suddenly, she was the picture of patience, not unlike a watchful predatory cat waiting for an opportune moment to strike. Gianna usually loathed to think of herself as prey, much as the shiver that crawled up her spine was telling her otherwise. Now though, it’d been long enough that Gianna could enjoy it. 

After Perkins emptied her glass into her throat, she sighed, flicking a hand towards the gun Gianna still held in her grip. “If...that’s what I think it is, will you make them give the rest of my stuff back? Some of that shit is expensive.”

Gianna leaned forward with some interest. Patience stuck to her like a second skin; she knew she’d never be rid of it. She said, out of genuine curiosity, for it seemed at that moment Perkins was looking at the world while standing on her head, a perspective most unlikely. “I am afraid that I have no say over the rest of your larder. Do you think that I’d still be here if I could make them do what I want?” 

Perkins gestured again, this time all impatience. In no time, she was back to her old self. “If it were up to them, I’d never be allowed to leave my apartment again. You must have done something.” Then she stepped forward, bent to take the gun out of Gianna’s hand, and held herself completely still. Her eyes searched Gianna’s and Gianna could smell the faint sourness of cheap wine on the other woman’s breath. 

Perkins’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t a trick.” 

“It must be a very good trick if I’m handing you a loaded gun. I’m not that clever.” 

Perkins didn’t need to be told twice. She snatched the gun from Gianna’s loosened grip and pointed the piece angled downwards, presumably, to check that the chamber was indeed loaded. After she was satisfied, she took a measured sip of wine. 

Gianna got out her phone and held that out too. “And the contract. You’ll need to memorize it.” 

Perkins said, “How much?” 

“Zero.” Gianna formed a perfect circle with her thumb and forefinger. “But between you and me, I’d be willing to give you half.”

“Of zero?” Perkins tilted her head.

“Of a million and a half,” Gianna said. Now, she was sure she had Perkins’s complete attention. While Gianna never liked being the center of attention (that was more Santino’s _forte_ ), she relished it now, if only to keep Perkins off-balance.

Perkins tossed Gianna back her phone. “I know Joseph Glinka. He looks after Viggo Tarasov’s church in Little Russia. Even with that? He’s not worth dick.” 

“Should be easy for you then,” Gianna said. “I am not the type to throw people off the deep end for no good reason.”

\+ + +

The Head Adjudicator was furious. He didn’t look particularly furious sitting behind his vintage oak desk with his hands folded, but Gianna had a feeling. No one called the Head Adjudicator by his given name and no one knew him personally, but his disapproval was legendary, even though Gianna had yet to be held at gunpoint herself.

That was about to change. 

The Head Adjudicator said, “Not only have you given an erroneous contract to an unauthorized asset, you’ve compromised the High Table’s authority. Are you out of your mind?” 

“Did the Russians complain?”

“That’s hardly the point.”

Gianna touched her hip; her guns had been collected from her prior to the meeting and she felt oddly naked without them. She looked down at her shoes, but made sure to respond at a reasonable volume. “Not yet. I just don’t believe in excessive punitive measures, especially since Miss Perkins did what we were all thinking. There’s only the two of us in this room. We can at least be honest in private. I assume we’re in private.” 

The Head Adjudicator was unfazed by this line of argument. The only indication that Gianna’s words had reached him was that he made a small noise of either discontent or agitation, and then he cleared his throat. “You will look at me when you are speaking. Miss Perkins might not have committed the breach on Company grounds, but she might as well have.” 

“Because she killed a man?” Murders, Gianna thought not without some irony, were not all created equal. “Everyone despised von der Heide. It was only a matter of time. Or was the High Table’s initial reluctance to strip him of his managerial post in Bogotá a testament of his friendship with you, or someone else?” She indicated the ceiling. 

“Do I look like I have friends, Miss D’Antonio?” Somehow, the Head Adjudicator managed to phrase this like a threat, and not exactly an empty one. 

This time, Gianna didn’t answer. 

When a minute had passed, she said, changing the subject, “The High Table should be seen to keep order. Not to seek vengeance. That’s beneath us. I believe Miss Perkins deserves a second chance. If it should turn out that she doesn’t deserve it, I’ll deal with it in my own time.” She added, “At my own expense.” 

The Head Adjudicator thought about this and nodded. But as Gianna rose from her seat, he held up a hand and motioned for her to sit back down. Between his opening his mouth and his asking the question, there was a pause, as if he was giving her a chance to think about her answer even beforehand: “Are you vengeful?”

Gianna tilted her head, making sure that she kept looking at the Head Adjudicator straight in the eye. “Do you know something that I don’t? A reason I have to be vengeful?” 

He didn’t reply. 

“My father was a difficult, stubborn man, especially towards the end of his life,” Gianna said. She stood up again, and this time, the Head Adjudicator didn’t stop her as she moved towards the door. “I think that’s something else we all knew. May I go?”

The Head Adjudicator nodded. His lips were pursed thinly in a straight line, and although he didn’t quite tell Gianna to go fuck herself, the sentiment rang loud and clear in the otherwise silent room.

\+ + +

“I thought I was the mad one,” said Santino. “But I suppose you’ve been waiting for years to go mad.”

According to her brother, he’d gone to check on the Camorra’s interests in Ruhr, and once that was over and done with, he and his party were making a short pit stop in Semmering. 

“Ten hours away?” 

Ten years ago, Santino might have sounded guilty. Now he was simply shameless. He said, “It’s been years since I’ve been on holiday, Gianna. Don’t begrudge me this, not when you’re in the land of liberty.” 

“Fuck you.” 

Santino barked a short, stilted laugh. Then he said, lowering his voice, “But honestly, have you lost your mind?” 

Gianna reclined back onto her bed. Her ceiling squeaked as someone else moved above her in a hurry. “Whatever gave you that impression?” 

“It’s not as if I don’t have my ear to the ground. Anyone else who speaks to the Head Adjudicator that way is Descended on the spot. You’re probably squandering all the goodwill so there’s none left for me.”

“Like father, like son,” Gianna said mostly to herself. “There already isn’t any left, this elusive...thing you call goodwill. Not for you, not for me, not for anybody. I probably got lucky.” 

Santino snorted. “I thought you didn’t believe in luck.”

Gianna opened her mouth, only to be interrupted by the loud, clanging rings from the hotel landline. “I have another call coming.” 

“One more thing before you go,” said Santino. “Do you know a Martin Schulz? He practically ran me out of Ruhr wanting to meet with me. It’s why I’m in Semmering now; I’m not really on holiday. He left me no choice.” 

Gianna didn’t believe her brother for a second. But the clanging of the landline was growing louder with each ring. She was eager to exchange one conversation for another. “I don’t know a Martin Schulz and to my knowledge Father has never mentioned him. I have to go.” 

She managed to catch the call just in time. 

“...Did I catch you at a bad time, Miss D’Antonio?” It was Charon, the concierge. His tone was neutral and flat, and Gianna could discern nothing just from his words. He always sounded like he wanted to be helpful.

“It depends,” Gianna told the truth, feeling calmer already; from Santino’s call, she’d been expecting a lot worse. Gianna sat back down on the bed, having lunged for the landline, allowing herself a moment to catch her breath. If her conversation with the Head Adjudicator had already reached Santino of all people across the Atlantic, who knew what kind of vicious rumors was already taking shape in New York. Even in the safety of the Continental, there seemed to be no time for rest. She sighed, “Does the Manager wish to speak with me?” 

(While it was nearly midnight, it was the Manager’s prerogative to speak to any of his guests at all hours.)

“The Manager is presently occupied,” Charon said shortly. “However, Miss Perkins is here to see you.” A pause. “...She says to assure you that she has not come empty handed, this time.” 

Gianna expelled a breath that she didn’t quite remember holding. “Send her up.”

\+ + +

Instead of saying hello, Perkins took one look around Gianna’s hotel room, a little lived in, given the extended length of her stay. She was wearing a dark jacket, tight enough to give away the gun she was wearing at her hip. Perkins was also carrying an ice bucket with a bottle of Prosecco, which she set on the table opposite the bed without any fanfare.

What Perkins did say was, “Thought you were broke. How are you staying here?” 

Gianna shrugged. Compared to Perkins, who obviously took some care in her appearance prior to coming here, Gianna couldn’t help but feel a bit under-dressed, for once. It was clear that Perkins had shown up to the Continental with a sense of purpose, and now it was Gianna herself without one. She tucked her robe more snugly around herself and tightened the sash around her middle, retying the knot so that it was neatly centered. 

“How would you know if I was broke?” 

Perkins smirked. “I hear things. But that’s not important now. I won’t even ask how you got the million and a half take out the contract on Joseph Glinka.” She nodded towards the ice bucket and motioned at the glasses that sat nearby. “I’m—” Here, Perkins paused to clear her throat, gather her resolve, “—here to thank you. I guess.” 

Well, this was an unexpected development. Gianna raised an eyebrow. “For?” 

“What the hell do you want me to do? Prostrate myself?” Perkins snarled, her earlier goodwill all gone. The ugly twist of her mouth made the thick, dark shade of red of her lipstick look more threatening than usual. In fact, Gianna would have thought the color did the other woman a disservice, but for now she kept that to herself.

“I’m shocked that you know the word prostrate and would even consider it,” Gianna said. “But no, perhaps I merely want you to elaborate. And pour me a drink.”

Perkins did, popping the cork and then filling one champagne flute until it was three-quarters of the way full. She handed it over to Gianna and stepped back, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. Perkins wasn’t good at staying still, but that was something Gianna knew already. 

Once again, Perkins cleared her throat and rubbed thoughtfully at her mouth, although her lipstick stayed unsmudged. “I’m...I’m grateful for you lifting my Expiation.” 

“I didn’t do it for you, Miss Perkins, don’t misunderstand me.” 

Perkins turned her back to Gianna to fill her own glass of Prosecco. “Then why did you do it? So I’d owe you a debt? You Italians are into that sort of thing, aren’t you?” 

“...‘That sort of thing?’” 

“You know.” Perkins raised her eyebrows. She sat down next to Gianna on her bed, with the glass balanced on one knee. 

“I’m afraid I don’t.” Gianna studied Perkins out of the corner of her eye as she kept staring straight ahead. Often, she found that concentrating on the one slightest detail made her think better. There was an icy drop of melted ice that’d crawled over the rim of the bucket. “Elaboration is better than prostration, no?” 

“Well, yeah. But it wouldn’t kill you to use your imagination.”

Now it was Gianna’s turn to arch a brow. “I’m not so adept at using my imagination for this purpose. Who knows where it might lead me.”

Perkins shifted close enough to Gianna to bump her thigh. “Try. I have a pretty good imagination myself.”

“Well, in that case, it _sounds_ as if you’re accusing me of having a weird sex thing, the way you seem embarrassed about it.” 

Perkins coughed into her glass. She recovered, quickly enough. “I’m not embarrassed, I’m.” She broke off abruptly. “— _Do_ you have a strange sex thing? Between you and me, that’s not a bad thing, exactly.” 

“Only if it’s also a Russian thing,” said Gianna. She took a sip of her own drink and got up to place her drink on the table next to the bucket. 

“If this is you asking me if Viggo missed Joseph Glinka?” Perkins laughed. She downed the rest of her Prosseco too, and stood, carefully closing the gap between herself and Gianna, each step full of youthful purpose. “The answer’s no. Apparently Joey’s been borrowing from the church. I’ve been commended and Viggo has welcomed me back from Expiation Hell with open arms.”

Gianna nodded. “I see.” 

“My ass,” Perkins grinned, showing straight white teeth. Clearly, she seemed proud of herself, which was just as well because it meant Perkins had lived her little life thus far without a memorable punch to her face. “You knew that. That’s why you chose him.”

Despite herself, Gianna was impressed, although she kept nonchalant. “Do you read minds now, Miss Perkins?” 

Perkins took a last step forward, and they were close enough now that Gianna thought she could feel Perkins’s even heartbeat thrumming against her own skin, a stark reminder of how little she was actually wearing. Perkins seemed to have noticed it too. “Like I give a fuck.” The Prosecco was sweet and cool on Perkins’s breath unlike the dry sourness of wine during their last encounter. 

Perkins’s expression was softer now, as she leaned forward for a kiss. Gianna couldn’t help but relax against her touch. It’d been some time since she’d felt this sort of _relief_ wash over her.

And Perkins grinned against her mouth. “Maybe I just know you better than you’d like.”

\+ + +

“If you didn’t do it for me, then why?” Perkins watched her carefully from her privileged vantage point on the bed. She wasn’t wearing anything, and she wasn’t in a hurry to remedy that by any means. She was probably still holding out hope for round two, but at the moment, Gianna was preoccupied.

She had the private, daily ritual of combing her hair. It was a strange girlish habit that had been instilled in her by her mother, who’d grown up being watched many guards around her house, if not by her own husband. In Gianna’s memory, her mother was never alone, except in the mornings when she woke up and dressed, taking care of herself. 

It was strange to be watched. 

Gianna worked the comb carefully through her hair looking down to carefully sift through the ends, making sure the hairs didn’t split. “Why does it matter the reason?” 

Now Perkins glanced away from her. “I’m trying to decide if I regret fucking you or not. It might tell me how I owe you.” It was a remarkably candid answer because someone like Perkins didn’t lie. She didn’t even sound particularly regretful, just said it like it was a fact. Gianna did like that about her. 

Gianna put down the comb and let the bunch of hair she was holding in her grip and let it fall down just past her shoulders. “If you do, I’m sure I will join a distinguished list. Besides, you’re young enough to make mistakes like these. And.”

“And?”

“You don’t have to owe me anything. Debts lead to resentment. I try to be progressive in my approach to things.” 

Perkins went to her on all fours, still half-tangled up in a sheet with her lipstick smeared. (For Gianna, it was nearly a point of pride.) They kissed, still in secret, still themselves. 

Gianna only broke the kiss as an incessant vibration filled the room. It was her mobile, which she’d left under her pillow. 

She nodded towards Perkins, who was already pivoting on her knees to fetch her mobile, but before the other woman could hand it over, Gianna shook her head. “You answer.” 

Perkins hesitated. 

“Let me ask you this: knowing that you’d get Expiated for months on end, would you still have done what you did?” 

“Everyone knew von der Fuck was an asshole,” said Perkins, shrugging. “So, yes.” 

“Then both of us have nothing to hide. Answer it.” 

Perkins did, adjusting herself slightly so she wasn’t tangled up in the bedsheet. It was as if she wanted to allow herself the opportunity to escape, if need be. “Gianna D’Antonio’s phone, she’s not here right now.” Then she said, “It’s a Martin Schulz. I swear I’ve heard his voice somewhere before. Should I take a message?”

\+ + +

Gianna would have never thought that someone had died here at the Holy New Martyrs Church just days before. The whole place was spotless. Usually when someone died in Italy, it was both functional and symbolic, so mess was profound and even immovable in the process. New York told another story; bodies dropped and disappeared nearly as quickly.

“It doesn’t seem like New York agrees with you, Miss D’Antonio.” 

Gianna stepped past the iconostasis and closed her eyes as she did so. When she opened them again, she spotted a man sitting in the frontmost pew, directly in front of the altar. It was either spare by choice or religious tradition. Gianna couldn’t figure out which. 

“...Simon?” Somehow, she was entirely surprised and then not at all. 

“Martin Schulz.” The man corrected her swiftly. Without a doubt, it was the Simon she’d met in Rome. But he was hardly dressed like the Simon she briefly knew, in that he was wearing a dark suit, and shiny shoes that covered his toes. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m Descended, not declared _Excommunicado_.” 

“Is Martin Schulz your real name?” 

“It was my name on my first passport,” Martin Schulz said. “Will you sit with me?” 

They sat in the same pew, giving each other a wide berth. Perhaps he assumed she was armed and he wouldn’t be wrong. “I heard you relieved Perkins of her Expiation.” He sounded marginally unhappy after the fact. 

“I thought it was unfair.” Gianna shrugged. 

“The High Table does not exist to be fair. Now that I’m no longer in its employ, I’d be within my rights to refer to it as a masturbatory exercise,” Martin reminded her, as though she was stupid. Just for a moment, Gianna fantasized about shooting the man in the head. If he was visiting the city as a private citizen, he probably found it too much trouble to arm himself. “What if I said there was a way to make the city agree with you? Your true inheritance. Not all of your father’s debts were in vain.” 

“Is that what you told Santino?” 

“I never met with him.” Martin frowned. “Anyway, your father has curried enough favor, should you decide that’s what you wish to do. He also gave me this.” 

Martin held out a thin piece of paper. Gianna had memorized a list of her father’s assets; it seemed unlikely that the paper would contain his last will and testament. 

She unfolded and read, in her father’s unsteady hand: _We go out on our own terms._

Gianna folded the paper up neatly and put it in her pocket. She thought she understood.

\+ + +

“Was your father big on farming, Gianna?” Winston said. He again joined her at her table at the bar, paying no heed that she wasn’t alone. Perkins, wisely, kept quiet.

“We own vineyards up and down the country,” Gianna replied, savoring her very nice glass of Pinot Blanc. She rarely drank white, but today was an occasion. “I’m not sure if that constitutes the same thing.” 

“It might not.” Winston shrugged amicably, as though those particulars didn’t matter to him. “But farmers sometimes subject their land to back burning. They’d set fires against the prevailing wind on their own lands, to prevent greater wildfires from occurring in future. It’s not...a terrible idea. Provided that you observe the right parameters.”

Gianna tried not to smile. “Is this your way of telling me not to burn down the Continental?” 

“Well, yes. The lobby was just recently remodeled. I’d hate to waste money as much as the next person.” 

“And what would you give me in return?” 

Winston regarded her narrowly. “I would think you’d appreciate my support, Gianna. Particularly since you might get book, bell, and candled if this all doesn’t work out quite as you imagine.” 

“I won’t wage a war just to lose, Mr. Manager. Especially not in your city. Wouldn’t want to be a laughingstock, would I?” Gianna looked at him just as evenly. “What else would you give me?” 

“What about…” Winston trailed off slightly. “Jonathan? The boy likes a good crusade.” 

All three of them watched as John Wick (suspiciously less injured than the last time Gianna had laid eyes on the man) wandered up to the bar to ask for a drink. Gianna said, “You say that as if you have the authority to give him away like a new coat.”

“What’s to say I don’t?” Winston shrugged. “All the fiddly specifics aside, Gianna, he is for sale.” 

“If it gets all fucked up though,” Perkins spoke suddenly and Gianna turned towards her. “Would you do it again?”

Gianna thought for a moment and then nodded slowly. “If it’s on my own terms.”

\+ + +

New York was burning and no doubt Winston was watching from his penthouse suite. No doubt Santino was trying to get a flight into JFK airport, chagrined to learn that all flights were cancelled until further notice.

At her father’s funeral, Gianna had largely stayed out of the chaos. She’d never liked it, when things got too messy although she was practical enough to accept it as a fundamental aspect of life. And if Gianna wanted change, then she’d have to brave the trenches like the rest. 

But Perkins looked right at home, with gunpowder dirt and grime under her fingernails. 

Perkins said, “What?”

“So long as I’m doing things on my own terms, I’m thinking I might declare myself Descended,” Gianna said, mostly thinking aloud, pausing only briefly to elbow an unfortunate goon in the face. “In other words, I quit. I can leave this all to my brother. He rather likes this stuff, you know, when things are so disorganized.” 

“Do you trust your brother that much?” 

“Not really.” Gianna shrugged. “But he will owe me. Barring that, there’s always blackmail.”

Perkins laughed. 

“Come work for me. Not because you owe me, Perkins, but because you want to.” 

Perkins stepped in close and put her hand at the small of Gianna’s back, aiming just past her shoulder. “All right. I thought you’d never ask.”


End file.
